MIsdiagnosis
by I'm Nova
Summary: John gets why Sherlock claims to be a high-functioning sociopath, he does. But it's ridiculous, and it needs to stop. For the 'illness' prompt by Sherlock challenges on Tumblr. Just a smidge of johnlock in the last paragraph, but really, the friendship tag seemed more apt...


_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

Misdiagnosis

Almost since birth, Sherlock heard people wondering what was wrong with him. True, Mummy was likelier to call him, "her special baby," while classmates opted for, "freak." But it was universally acknowledged that he wasn't normal (not that he wanted to be, that sounded dead boring anyway), and not the good, superior kind of special, like Mycroft. It wasn't that he really was stupid, certainly not compared to most. But while Mycroft could use his intelligence to fit in seamlessly in polite society (any society, at that), Sherlock couldn't be bothered.

Somehow, that required him to see a long parade of doctors of too many different specializations. Sherlock hated it with a passion. He didn't want to become Mycroft. He wanted to become one of these ordinary kids even less. Thankfully, he could talk circles around most of these so-called luminaries. Obviously, the only possible course of action if he didn't want to be harassed for decades was picking a diagnosis for himself and persuade the doctors that it was his situation.

Eleven year old Sherlock read through as many psychiatry and pathology books as he could, before settling on sociopathy. It might or it might not have something to do with the book he'd found being really old and listing homosexuality as a subset of sociopathy, and his eyes starting to linger on Victor (it shouldn't be odd that he was all around precocious). He just wished he had the idea before, so he could have avoided so many useless visits. Of course, the latest doctor fell for his show hook, line and sinker.

For decades, he used the diagnosis as his shield. He wasn't a freak, or a psycho. He was a high-functioning sociopath, thank you very much, and if you didn't understand the difference, Google was your friend. Nobody doubted him. Nobody objected. Not even Mrs. Hudson, who'd just sigh and say, "If you say so, dear." Much less Lestrade, but then again, taking his consulting detective's every word as gospel was pretty much what he did all the time. His family…hell, they probably were as happy as the sleuth was to have a proper definition to excuse their more frustrating son's behaviour.

Then, John came along. And he took things in stride. Sure, he might blurt out a Fuck! when confronted with unexpected body parts in the fridge, or complain about accidental contamination…but he never asked Sherlock to change entirely. He – very carefully – never called his flatmate names, though he objected (loudly so) to some behaviours. John offered compromises. Directions, often, but not in a, "you're still a child who can't do anything right," tone (looking at you, Mycroft).

No wonder the consulting detective desperately wanted to keep him, and would adapt (or, mostly adapt) to any request from his blogger. They weren't unreasonable anyway. He would have never guessed what would happen following this path. He should have. John was bright.

Honestly, the sleuth wasn't even sure what exactly he'd done to garner such a bad reaction. He'd decided to go bother Molly for body parts when it was almost time for John to finish visiting hours, so they could go back together, and sent him a text. When the doctor came to the morgue, he found a crying pathologist and a puzzled flatmate.

After inquiring about the events, John had ordered in his sterner tone, "Apologise. Now."

Sherlock refused. He still didn't know why she lost it, and apologies when he had no idea what he'd done wrong were meaningless anyway, weren't they? He'd just do it again. John had apparently decided that now was time to repent, and understanding could come later, if at all. Well, that wouldn't do. He snapped, "I'm a high-functioning sociopath anyway, which she knows. So any apology from me would be fake."

Molly only cried harder, and ran away. His blogger, instead, crossed his arms and glared up at him. "That has gone on long enough," he declared.

"What, her fit? I agree, but…" the sleuth replied, purposefully misunderstanding him. It turned out he really misunderstood – his friend was fed up, but not with his rudeness, or whatever else he'd done to set her off.

"You," John cut him in, "And your tooting this stupid misdiagnosis of yours. I didn't mind when you used it to shut up the likes of Donovan, because what I'd do would be to tell her off for being an envious bitch, and that probably is not the best attitude with an officer. But I'm a doctor, Sherlock. And I'm capable of doing my research, and knowing the best sources too. I have no idea who is the idiot who deemed you a sociopath, or how they managed to convince you that you're one, but you're not. Sociopaths are abusive shits incapable of forming emotional bonds, much less lasting ones. I don't know, sometimes I think you _like_ the idea of being without emotions, but I know you. I know that you're on the opposite end of the spectrum, if anything, once one can get past your walls. I can bring witnesses, if you need them. And try to tell Mrs. Hudson she switched one abuser for another…if you fancy being on the wrong end of her pan. So now, you go after Molly and apologise for telling her that her constant pattern of pining after unavailable men is well known to everyone and still no business of yours. She was chatting about her favourite actor, for God's sake! She doesn't need some sort of misdiagnosis either. Go, apologise, then we can go home."

This time, Sherlock obeyed swiftly, too concerned about being left without his shield to want to challenge John at the moment. Molly was, understandably, not eager to hear him out, after his earlier outbursts. But when he admitted that he wasn't wrong just about her, but about himself, too, acknowledging that his diagnosis was a mistake…Well, that got her attention. "I promise I'll leave the diagnostics to actual medical professionals – well, to John, because believe me, most people are idiots even in your field. I still shouldn't have dismissed you."

"Are you pretending?" she sniffled.

"I could. But I don't need to. I really don't like hurting you. But you know I'm not the best with whom to gossip about movies. Even your cat is probably more aware of the subject."

At that, Molly laughed weakly. "Right. What was I thinking. Agree that we should both have known better?"

"Definitely." With the matter resolved, he could go back to John and assure him all was well. Hopefully his friend wouldn't be angry anymore.

His blogger welcomed him back with a warm, "Let's go home then."

"Don't you want to ask if she forgave me?" the sleuth wondered aloud.

"It's obvious," John replied, with a half-smile.

Oh. He wasn't used to be easily read…unless Mummy or Mycroft were involved, of course. The idea was lovely, but partially worrying, too.

Once back home, sat in front of a leftovers' lunch, Sherlock couldn't help himself. He asked, "If I'm not a sociopath…then what would you say I am?"

John looked at him with surprise. "My friend? A bit of an asshole too, sure, but usually only to people who deserve it, so it's not that bad. Do you really think you have some…issue?"

"It's always been the general consensus. Sure, I didn't have much in common with most kids, but Mycroft didn't either, and he's always been able to gain people's appreciation…He's been well liked all his life. I, on the other hand, could never be bothered to mind what people who didn't count thought….and almost nobody counts," Sherlock explained.

"That's called having a personality, Sherlock, Christ. You should see Harry and me. Almost night and day. Just because you're as clever as your brother, it doesn't mean that you have to be a carbon copy. You might be a bit more difficult to deal with, sure. But you're great once one gets to know you. I really want to have words with your parents now. Stern ones. And with every doctor who visited you and didn't have stern words with them first," his friend snapped.

"Are you serious?" the sleuth queried earnestly.

"Believe me love, you're perfect," John assured. It took him three hours to realise what he'd said – the detective being too shocked to point that out. But that slip – and what followed – is a story for another time…


End file.
